Relapse
by Gelly-MacANDChibiJojo
Summary: Sometimes the medication doesn't always work, and to create an antidote to poison you must first mix some of the poison into it. Pre-Series. R&R.


_**Relapse**_

He breathed a sigh of relief as the smoke rushed up through his oesophagus, into his lungs, nose and pores, to then rush right back out his nostrils and through his slightly parted lips. Nikola leant back in the chair and closed his eyes, the remnants of Tabaco smoke escaping his mouth and spritzing that small, cold room with a lovely perfume. He wondered what Helen would think if she saw him with a cigarette. She would ultimately be mad; that was the inevitable. But would she care in the end? Who knows. Does he himself care? Not in the slightest. Besides, it wasn't like it was going to kill him.

Vampire, remember?

_Vampire_ … The word swam around and around in his brain like a deadly siren song. _Vampire_ …

The exact definition of a vampire – he'd looked it up once – was: _An immortal monster that has long ago lost its soul – or never having possessed one at all – that preys on the innocent and unaware, taking their lives in the most inhumane of ways only for their blood._ Then it said, in captions, "Blood Drinker".

Nikola Tesla pondered over this definition for quite some time. Was he immortal? Yes, he was. Was he a monster? Possibly. Has he lost his soul? _Maybe,_ but Helen would tell him otherwise. Does he prey on innocent people and take their lives? Not since 1886.

Does he drink blood? No. Not ever. Not since his awakening.

But _why?_ Why does the vampire not drink blood?

It was out of his control, that's why. Ever since his little episode back in Oxford four decades ago, Helen had gone out of her way, stayed up til all hours to create a medication for him – an anti-vampire medication –that would cease his bloodlust. It worked, in the end, and Helen was so happy that … what? That he wouldn't be a monster any more.

Nikola took another drag of his cigarette and leant forward, elbows on knees and face in hands, messing up his usually neat and slicked back hair. He tugged at one of the dark brown locks. Hm. It needs a cut. Vampiric immortality and invulnerability, and his hair were the only thing that grows anymore. Helen's hair grew too, but it now was chopped into a neat little bob just above her chin to suit the fashion of today.

Sighing and turning his head to the side, Nikola spied a little glass vial sitting calmly there holding all the small white pills inside of it, as if it didn't have a care in the world. As if it weren't the cause of all his problems. This was Helen's medication, and when he was out, he'd run to her for more.

Nikola didn't always want to be a monster. He remembered in his early days, running back to the Sanctuary after having killed for the very first time. He'd collapsed into James's arms because the scent of iron and the drumming of heart beats all around were just too much, and his legs couldn't support him anymore. In the morning when he woke up Nikola regretted running to James because the last place he would have taken him was Helen, he knows now, and that was exactly where he needed to be.

That was the first time he'd cried in front of colleagues, friends – in front of anyone. But he really didn't care. He was just as bad a John. Just as bad as The Ripper. Maybe even worse. He remembered their faces as he stood their screaming about what he'd done, what he _was_, crying into James's shoulder, shirt covered in blood; Nigel, John and Helen standing there not knowing what to do because the situation was just so _abnormal_ to them. The great Nikola Tesla, completely wrecked and broken.

Dr Watson did what he could to try and console the boy, along with Helen – after they finally let her near him again (It wasn't like he tried to attack her. _Nikola_ kept _himself_ away from her, jeez!). He was the youngest of the Five, and who knew that the youngest would have the most drastic transformation, or the most accurate since it _was_ vampire Source Blood they all took. But in the end James and Helen's words of comfort and reassurance were futile. He knew what he'd done, he knew they knew what he'd done, and he was pretty sure the lady he'd done it to knew as well – if she were still alive he'd never stayed long enough to check.

Groaning as all those horrible memories filled his mind's eye; Nikola reached over and grabbed the vial and slipped two pills onto his palm, which was the colour of alabaster. He always went really pale when he needed blood desperately. Staring at the white things he imagined them breaking open and a dark red liquid oozing out, smelling of rust. Because after all, to create an antidote to a poison you must first mix part of the poison into it.

Not that he defined blood as poison. It kept people going. Well, most people. Humans, that is.

And it once kept _him_ going.

There it was again: the smell. That beautiful sent in which he so longed for, even more than wine or Helen. Blood. Blood and that beautiful drumming music. It's been so long since …

No! He couldn't – _wouldn't_. He had to think of the poor man or woman whom that sent belonged to, their life, if they had a family, children and parents and friends. All those establishments or friendships and lives that have taken near forever to create, he'd be destroying in a second. He had to think of Helen; she couldn't believe he was a monster. She had to keep that delusion her whole life that he was something she wanted him to be. Just like those people, he would relapse and everything will be over.

But … But … The _blood_. The sent was so strong, so _beautiful_ that his eyes began to tear up with heart wrenching longing. It had been so long. _So_ … _long_ …

Nikola stared back down to the pills and thought of Helen and how good he will feel after he had taken them. Not as good as he'd feel when the warm liquid was running down his throat and into him, replenishing his hunger, alerting his senses and bringing colour back into his skin and making him feel _alive_ again.

Alright. He'd made his decision.

With one flick of his wrist the two pills flew through the air and into the crackling fire that did nothing for his warmth, and one more sent the rest of the bottle following. He flicked his cigarette in to for the heck of it, since he won't need it anymore.

Finally! _Gone!_

With that Nikola crossed the floor from the living room to the door, stepped out of his apartment and into the brisk and refreshing night air and carried the sent just perfectly.

Nobody had to know, after all.

It wasn't difficult to get her to leave the bar and get into the car with him. On the contrary, it was quite easy. Her little giggles as he kissed her wrist and arm, shoulder, cheek, lips and neck. Oh, how she gazed at him, thinking he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen – he almost laughed at how ironic that was.

Then, when his long nails grasped her arms, pinning her to the back seat and his elongated teeth finally pierced her skin … _That_ was the most beautiful thing.

She didn't make a sound toward the end, didn't even squeak as all the blood from her body drained from her and rendered her still, cold and dead. Removing himself from her lovely neck, Nikola leant back and sighed, laughing for the first time in years. Like a mad man on a killing spree; which, quite literally, he was.

Nobody had to know.

* * *

><p><strong>Writing this I realised that I am physically unable to write drabble. It's just not in my nature. This was supposed to be 300-400 words-or-so <strong>_**only**_**.**

**I'm in love with characters that hide behind a mask. The ones who are usually arrogant and self-important, but underneath there's this horrible past and backstory. Nikola's a perfect example of this. **

**I hope you liked it.**

**Please Review. **


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